


One Time They Weren’t a Couple, and Four Times They Were

by nutmeag83



Series: Blood is Thicker than Water, but Love is Thicker than Blood [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Best Friends, Dogs, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Except it's actually 1+4, Fluff, Gen, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Romance, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: Five moments in John and Sherlock's life where their relationship is discussed.





	One Time They Weren’t a Couple, and Four Times They Were

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the opposite of your normal 5+1. I just started thinking of times set after the previous story in this series where they like saying or being assumed they are a couple, and so this just happened. Just some quick little one-shots with absolutely zero plot and one million tons of fluff. Now it’s back to my long story. With actual plot. Ugh.
> 
> This takes place just a few months after A Warm Winter, so you might want to read that one first (it's only 5k). But this can be read on its own if you prefer.
> 
> Not beta’d or Brit-picked.

**-1**

“Christ! For the last time, we’re not dating. Just because two men get along and live in the same flat doesn’t mean they’re dating. Are you five?” John rounds on Donovan as soon as the word “boyfriend” leaves her mouth.

Sherlock’s chest tightens as the rant continues. He should be used to it by now. They’ve been flatmates for almost a year, and John still gets so tetchy when someone calls them a couple. Is it so terrible to be thought of as dating him? He knows most people don’t care to have him around, but John is different. So why do these misapprehensions bother John so much? Especially coming from Donovan, who is only doing it to wind him up. Which he knows perfectly well.

“Are you through with your tantrum yet, Doctor? We have a kidnapper to catch,” Sherlock says coldly, whipping around to head for the door without waiting to see if John follows. It would serve him right if he had to catch a separate cab.

**+1**

It’s a beautiful day for a visit to the park. Rosie has been cranky and restless since she woke up, so they’d gone out right after breakfast. And being the stubborn Watson she is, she’s refusing to be carried or pushed, so they’re moving along at a snail’s pace. The Holmes in her is also showing through every time she stops to intently study a flower or rock. John likes seeing her like this, so curious about the world. He likes the reminder, too, that Sherlock—his best friend, partner in crime, partner in, well, life—is there to influence and care for her too. He’d never thought he’d be this content. Even during the early days with Mary, he’d never felt this … settled. Back then, he’d been itching for cases. And for Sherlock.

Not in a sexual way. Maybe in a romantic way, he’s not sure. He’s never been very sure when it comes to his best friend. He just knows that he likes what they have now—cases, Rosie, evenings in front of the fire. It doesn’t even really matter if he never sorts his feelings. He’s happy with his life.

Rosie’s gasp pulls John from his musings. “Puppy!” she exclaims, making a waddling beeline for a woman and the dog walking next to her. Sherlock is there to keep her upright and from getting too close to the unfamiliar dog, though John can see he wants to pet it just as much.

“May we?” John asks when they’re close enough to talk with the woman.

“Of course! She loves children,” the woman replies with a smile.

Sherlock crouches down, and he and Rosie pet and coo at the dog. John likes dogs well enough, but he’s content to watch his family interact with the animal. He gets to chatting with the woman while they watch. After a few minutes, he decides they should let the woman move along.

“Rosie, darling, it’s time to go,” he says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to signal him. Rosie _will_ throw a tantrum.

“No! Pet puppy!”

“Rosamund, you heard Daddy,” Sherlock adds. He stands up, pulling their daughter into his arms, where she immediately starts squirming.

“No, Papa! Pet puppy. _Pet puppy_!”

Sherlock maneuvers her so she’s facing him eye to eye and begins talking quietly but sternly to her. John smiles apologetically at the woman.

“Sorry about that. She’s been cranky all morning. Thank you again for taking the time to let us pet your dog. I suppose we should consider getting one for Rosie. It’s probably preferable to her having a meltdown every time we’re at the park. Even knowing I’ll be the one walking it every day,” he adds, giving Sherlock a mock glare as he comes to stand beside John.

“Ahh,” the woman says sagely. “The burden of being the responsible spouse. I know it well.” She lifts the hand holding the dog leash and winks.

John laughs, then feels Sherlock tense. Oh. This is the first time someone has referred to them as being romantically involved since Sherlock officially adopted Rosie and since they declared their intentions to become a family, platonically. John would be surprised that Sherlock is still worried about his reaction to the words, but he’s adult enough to admit he’s not reacted well in the past. But it’s different now. They’re different. _He’s_ different.

He puts a hand on Sherlock’s back to calm him. “It is a burden,” he says cheerfully to the woman, “but he’s got enough charm to make it worth the extra chores.” He feels Sherlock’s shocked glance, then feels him relax. “Right. Well, we’ll be off. Have a good morning.”

They all take their leave, heading in opposite directions. Rosie is sobbing in Sherlock’s arms. It might be best for them to head home, lest they all become cranky.

“You didn’t correct her,” Sherlock says softly, stopping to face John. The words are almost lost under Rosie’s crying.

“Well, it’s true enough, innit? We’re family.”

“But they might think–”

“They’ll do little else, as a wise man once told me.”

Sherlock acquiesces with a single nod, but his face is still scrunched in confusion.

“Does it bother you if they think we’re together like that?” John asks.

“Of course not. But I thought you …”

John shrugs. Rosie’s wailing increases when she realizes they’re ignoring her. He winces, already feeling a headache coming on. He loves his daughter, he really does, but somedays he would love to go back to being childless, just a few hours.

Except. Not really. Because though there was that halcyon period of adventure and fun with Sherlock back when they first met, there had still been something missing—this, whatever it is they have now that’s brought them together. Their being a family has filled the empty gap in their lives. Knowing they’ll raise a daughter together, grow old together, enjoy life together. That’s so much more than they were before, and he wouldn’t give that away for all the world.

“I’m pretty okay with it. I don’t give fu–” he stops when he remembers Rosie might be hearing his words, “fig if they think we’re sleeping together. Because us being partners—spouses—also means they know we support each other, raise a child together, intend to one day retire and live out elderly lives together, and I _want_ people to know that. I’m proud we’re doing this together, Sherlock, and if that means people also think we have sex, well, so what? There are far bigger things in life to worry about.”

“Oh.”

John isn’t sure why him talking like this still stuns Sherlock. They’ve been living this family life for a year, had made it official three months before with Rosie’s adoption. It makes his heart ache to realize Sherlock thinks so little of himself that these little kindnesses can daze him.

He vows to make sure Sherlock knows every day that he is loved.

**+2**

“Here to bail your friend out?” the bored desk sergeant asks John. He signals for someone to fetch Sherlock. John slumps against the desk to fill out paperwork and wait.

It’s far too late to be out. He’d had to wake Mrs. Hudson to let her know she had Rosie duty until he’d returned. He’d been asleep, goddamnit. He’s getting to old for this.

An exhausted guffaw escapes from John’s throat. “God, if only he was just a friend. If he was a friend, I could leave him to rot until morning. But heaven forbid I leave my daughter’s precious Papa in prison. I am _not_ prepared for another week of the silent treatment.”

The sergeant eyes John, as if he can’t believe he has a husband. Which he doesn’t, technically. But he’s not about to explain the intricacies of the Watson-Holmes family dynamics at this time of night to a man he’ll (hopefully) never see again. Maybe he _will_ let Sherlock rot next time he gets locked up. Serve him right.

“She gets her tenacity from you,” Sherlock says, walking out from lockup, settling his suit jacket back on his shoulders. He’d apparently heard John’s rant. Damn eagle ears.

“Yeah, well, you better watch it, or I’ll leave you here next time.” They head for the exit. All John wants is his bed. And to not have to wake up early for work. Shit, he might call in sick. “What were you thinking, going to the suspect’s house by yourself? You swore you’d stop that.”

Sherlock sighs and waves down a cab. “He was supposed to be abroad for a month.”

“That doesn’t matter! You can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. You have a daughter at home who would be _devastated_ if anything happened to you.” John slides into the vehicle and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need you too. Please.”

“John, I’m. Sorry.”

John feels a hand on his knee and looks up. Sherlock looks genuinely upset.

“It was stupid, I know. I knew when I did it, but …”

“Sometimes you can’t help yourself.” John sighs and leans back against the seat. God, he’s exhausted.

“I won’t do it again.”

“Yes, you will.” His tone isn’t angry, though. He’s resigned. He’s partnered to Sherlock, he knew what that meant back when it began, and he knows it won’t change now. He is who he is. And John loves him for it, truly. Just. Maybe not at three in the morning. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Just be careful, okay? We don’t want to lose you.”

“I’ll call you next.”

“Damn right, you will.” John smiles, eyes closed. Sherlock keeps his hand on his knee. It’s nice.

**+3**

“Papa.”

“Yes, my dear.” Sherlock looks up from the microscope. He knows that tone. Rosie has something serious she wants to ask him. She looks very much like John when she has that tone. They have that same furrow in their brows, the same set to their mouths. She even clenches her left hand a little. At seven, she is very much her own person, but she’s still the product Captain Doctor John Watson.

“Are you and Daddy married?”

He’s surprised it’s taken her this long to ask. They’d both assumed it would happen soon after she began school and learned how most other families are. But it’s taken almost three more years since then.

“No. What brought this on?”

“Jordan said her mum told her you were married. I said you weren’t. That you’re just best friends.”

“You’re corre–”

“Then Amy said best friends can’t have a daughter together. And I said, ‘Yeah they can. They’re best friends, and they have me.’ I think it’d be silly if people who have kids together _aren’t_ best friends. You have to live together and copperate a lot, so you better like each other _loads_.” She’s gone back to coloring while she talks, but she still has that serious look on her face.

“ _Co_ -operate.”

“ _Co-_ operate,” she repeats, always keen on getting her words right.

“Does it bother you that we aren’t married?”

“No. Daniel’s parents aren’t married either.”

“But they do act like a couple, like they’re married.” It’s not that Sherlock is bothered by their arrangement. He just wants to make sure Rosie is okay with it. Her happiness is the most important thing to him and John.

“Yeah, you do too.”

“What?” Oh God, he’s turning into John.

“You _do_ act like you’re married.” Rosie looks up from her coloring to glare at him. That expression is completely him, according to John. His ‘I can’t believe you’re so dense’ look.

And perhaps he is dense. Human relationships continue to be a mystery to him, at least when he himself is involved. He understands more now than when he and John first met, and even more than when Rosie came into the picture, but he still has trouble parsing things sometimes. Still, he and John don’t act like they’re married, do they?

“We don’t kiss or … other things. Hugging,” he adds lamely, avoiding the sex bits.

She shrugs. “You laugh a lot when you’re together. You work good together, Uncle Greg says so. Nanna H said she’s never met two people more suited for each other.”

He smiles to hear her parrot her extended family. And there is truth in what she (and they) says. But still, they’re not a couple. Not _really_. Not in the way he and Rosie have been discussing at least.

“She’s right, you know,” comes John’s voice from the door. Sherlock wonders how long he’s been standing there listening. “We might not be legally wed, and we don’t kiss or … hug,” John smirks at this. “But we kinda do act like we’re married otherwise. The bits that really matter. You make me happier than anyone else ever has. You actually listen to me—well, at least forty percent more than you do to anyone else. And I can’t imagine my life without you. Seems pretty married to me.” He comes further into the room and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder, leaving his hand there. It’s warm and comforting.

And what John says is true. No wonder he’s never been a fan of the institution of marriage. It’s just the frivolous bits of a relationship that don’t matter. You don’t even need to be married to get the tax benefits anymore. Still, he frowns and studies John’s (dear) face.

“We don’t have to start going to tedious barbeques and holding hands, do we?”

John laughs and squeezes his shoulder again. “No. We’re perfect just as we are.”

Rosie nods her agreement.

Given the warmth blooming in him, Sherlock concurs as well.

**+4**

“God, can you believe it? Retirement.” John sighs, dropping into his chair after a long day of moving. It’s the first time either of them have lived outside a city outside of childhood. He’s still not sure how well they’ll handle it. But bees make more sense in the country, and Sherlock’s knees aren’t too keen on stairs these days. It’ll be an adjustment, but they’ll manage, he decides. The sunset he’s watching out the window is worth it.

The doorbell rings, and he answers the display in the sitting room, not expecting anyone. It’s a boy, maybe sixteen or so. “Hello?” John asks.

“Hi!” The boy grins. “I’m Steven. I’m here about the garden work?”

Not having arranged any such person, John gives him a blank look.

The boy’s smile dims a little. “Umm, I think your husband contacted me? Sherlock Holmes?”

John exasperatingly glances over to the kitchen where Sherlock has his lab goggles on and is setting something on fire. The man has a perfectly good lab at the back of the house, but he only spent about twenty minutes in it before he pronounced it too quiet and dropped his equipment onto their (brand new) kitchen table. Not that John blames him. First it was Mrs. Hudson passing away, then Rosie going off to uni, and now there’s no traffic. Their lives keep getting quieter and quieter. They’re both grasping to hear any connection with humanity they can.

Sherlock responds without lifting his head. “As if you want to start mowing the grass after twenty-five years of not having to. Plus, this way we’re supporting the local economy.”

John grins and shakes his head. “Be right there,” he tells Steven. He lets the boy in and makes tea while they discuss what all needs to be done. John wants to take care of the daily stuff—the weeding and pruning; he’s retired and needs the distraction—but Steven will manage the mowing and some handy work jobs that will inevitably pop up. He seems like a good kid. Eager to work. Polite too. That’s nice to see.

After seeing the boy to the door, John makes cheese toasties to go with the tomato soup he picked up at the market this afternoon. He gives Sherlock a warning to move the lab equipment. He’s waiting for the sandwiches to finish cooking when Sherlock hugs him from behind.

Their touches have become more common and familiar over the years—Sherlock is a bit of a cuddler while watching television—and it’s nice. He likes that they have this connection, especially with Rosie out of the house. He thinks back to Steven calling Sherlock his husband, and the many times over the years others have made the same mistake, and he knows it’s true enough. Over thirty years of friendship, most of those living together, and they know and love each other more than most married couples he’s met. He likes this. He sends up thanks for the millionth time that he finally got his head out of his arse after Mary’s death. They’ve had a good life, and he’s ready for this next bit. Retirement. Still hard to believe.

“Set the table?” he asks, putting his arms over Sherlocks—still wrapped around his waist—for a moment.

“I’m retired,” Sherlock pouts, before pulling himself away and doing as asked.

“So am I, yet here I am, slaving over this stove. When do the bees get here?”

“Tuesday.”

Sherlock chatters on about the bees as he hunts through the kitchen cabinets in search of plates. He’d spent hours rearranging the sitting room and bedrooms, leaving the kitchen to John, which he’s paying for now that he can’t find anything. John smirks and taps the cabinet to the left of his head.

“Why’d you put them on the left? They were on the right at Baker Street.”

“Because it makes more sense in this kitchen. Which you should know, given your twenty-minute lecture to me on functional home spaces.”

“You were listening?”

“I was stuck in a car with you, what else was I supposed to do,” John says, but his voice and smile let Sherlock know he’s teasing. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

They chat while they eat, then do the washing up and settle in their chairs for the evening—John with a book and Sherlock with his latest knitting project, a hat for Rosie living in the cold north while getting her PhD. It’s so domestic, he smiles. They’ve had plenty of these moments over the years, but something about this cottage in the country and them with no more cases (he gives it three weeks before Sherlock is pounding on the local police station’s door, John right on his heels) makes it seem even more homey.

“I’m glad we decided to do this. I’m glad you’re here with me.” God, retirement has turned him maudlin.

Sherlock looks up from the hat with a fond smile. “Me too.”

It’s a good life. It’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not particularly happy with the ending, but I was just trying to get these out of my system before going back to my Very Serious fic, so I'm posting as is. Hope you still enjoyed my fluffy fluffness.


End file.
